


FENCES part 1

by lexcc



Category: The Lost World (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexcc/pseuds/lexcc
Relationships: Marguerite Krux/John Roxton
Kudos: 3





	FENCES part 1

FENCES

Instinctively he knew that she would be as uninhibited, as fierce a lover as he himself was. He didn't delude himself into believing that she was untouched, inexperienced, but privately he determined that he would be the only lover she would ever know from that night onward.

Roxton was on his back, in her bed, in the treehouse, and Marguerite was riding him, her slim, hard-muscled thighs straddling his hips. He was arching into her, pounding forcefully, growling with the effort, his hands on her hips, his breath ragged in his throat. Her elegant hands rested on top of his, her head and long neck were thrown back, and her face transformed by passion. She was moaning huskily, urging him on; her masses of stormy black hair fell almost to her waist. Her hands left his then, one reaching back to caress the juncture where their bodies met, the other at her own breast. Her smoldering gaze met his, her eyes heavy-lidded. Roxton thought he had never seen anything so erotic in his life.

"Oh, God ... Marguerite ..." he rasped, knowing he could no longer hold back. His callused hands pulled her roughly down to him; he was biting, then kissing, her pale shoulder, her pink tongue was in his ear and he groaned gutturally into her neck as he came.

When they had both regained their breath, and lay sprawled together, limbs entangled, on the bed, Roxton wound a hand in Marguerite's hair. He propped himself up on one elbow and grinned lazily down at her,

"Well?" he said, cocking his eyebrow.

"Well?" she questioned teasingly; he laughed, amused at the mischief in her gray eyes as she mirrored his expression almost exactly. "Proud of yourself, John?"

He pretended to polish his fingernails on a nonexistent lapel.

"Shouldn't I be, Marguerite? You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself!"

" I suppose ... " she said consideringly, looking coyly at him from under sooty lashes.

He burst out laughing and commanded her huskily, "Come here ... " and drew her close. He nuzzled hungrily at her creamy breasts, surprised at the strength of the desire that was so soon again surging through him, and was gratified to hear a noise that sounded almost like a purr emanating from her throat. "You little tigress," he breathed, "You'll be my most beautiful trophy yet!" So engrossed was he in loving her - in her light powdery scent, the feel of her nipple hardening against his thumb, the excitement of his other hand brushing lightly between her legs - that he did not, at first, notice how completely she had frozen at his words.

"Trophy ..." The ill-chosen word set off loud warning signals in Marguerite's brain, and the protective walls that had only just begun to crumble when she saw the love in John Roxton's eyes were made strong once again. She - and her fortune - were no man's trophy. She would never be that weak, never fall prey to any fortune hunter! More than one man - and one in particular - had sought her company, had convincingly professed his love for her, and had turned out to be interested only in her money. But surely, surely ... Roxton was not like that ...Marguerite cast her mind back to the events of the evening...

She and Roxton had been the only two left around the campfire. Summerlee had long been asleep, and Malone and Veronica were accompanying Challenger on one of his searches for previously undiscovered specimens ... or something. (As usual, Marguerite had not paid very much attention.) The night was very quiet and still, and, for a change, she and Roxton were not engaging in their usual bickering and games of one-upmanship. Marguerite had closed her eyes, rested her head against the tree behind her, and had lost herself in dreams of their eventual return to London. Somehow sensing Roxton's eyes upon her, she had suddenly opened her own, catching him unaware, as he drank in the beauty of her lovely face. Her lips parted in ... surprise? pleasure? For Roxton's heart was there on display, thinking itself safe from her notice: he loved her. For once, his cool, mocking look was gone completely, and in its place was such protectiveness, such unguarded hunger, such love, that she ached to see it. Her defenses were overcome at the sudden assault. And then,

"Yes," she had said softly.

It was the hardest word she had ever uttered in her life.

He had given her his familiar slow grin, but had been unable to quench the fire that flared in his dark brown eyes, and taking her hand in his strong one, had led her into the treehouse.

And now, forgetful of her hands tangled in his thick hair as he kissed his way down her body murmuring words of love and sex, she stiffened, as shame and rage burned in her. How could she have been so stupid, so weak!? How could she have trusted someone to this extent - someone who then confirmed her innermost fears by referring to her casually as his "trophy?!" She was furious at herself and at him. So that when he sensed the change in her mood and looked up at her quizzically, her face was set in her old look of disdain.

"Marguerite? What ..."

"Get out of here ... NOW," she spat.

The look on his handsome face was almost comical.

"What?!"

"You heard me. You thought you had me, didn't you, Roxton? Well, guess what ... I had YOU!" she lashed out at him.

"Marguerite, what the hell are you talking about?" He looked at her as if she had gone mad. "God help me, but I love you ... I'm in love with you, and I remember you once telling me that we needed each other."

Marguerite hardened her heart until she felt like her old invulnerable self.

"Yes, I need you, Roxton, like a cat needs a ball of string ... to play with."

He drew back as if he had been slapped and stared at her. Finally he shook his head and said slowly, as if he didn't much like what he had to say - as if he didn't much like HER, for that matter -  
"I once called you a cold customer. I don't think I could have imagined just HOW cold." He turned away and started to dress.

Marguerite's insides were in knots. Oh, God, what was she doing? She swallowed convulsively.

"John ..." she managed to squeeze out. He turned back to look at her, wariness in his shadowed eyes, but the iron bars around her heart, so painstakingly erected over the years, would not let themselves be breached by another word, and she could say nothing more.

Roxton thought for a moment that he had seen something in her face, something that was calling to him, but his pride prevented him from speaking. And as she sat there, she seemed so unapproachable and arrogant, that he was sure he had been mistaken. Could this really be the same woman as the one who had just minutes ago used her slim fingers to caress him, her tempting mouth to excite him, whose hot breath had fanned his temple as he kissed her neck? He thought despairingly that her capacity for deception and cruelty were remarkable. He loved her; he was trapped like one of the beasts that he himself hunted, but it seemed that his captor had no soul.

He turned and exited the room, deliberately slamming the wooden door behind him, and cursed,

"May God damn you to Hell, Marguerite."

Marguerite gave a short, bitter laugh and said to the closed door,  
"Don't worry, John ... He already has."

To be continued ...


End file.
